


In the Depths of the Sea

by marlosbooknook



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/M, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10387437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlosbooknook/pseuds/marlosbooknook
Summary: The ocean has ruled Claire Beauchamp's life, first taking her parents from her, and then sending her and her uncle across the Atlantic to Barbados, where she built a new home and life for herself. but, when a mysterious stranger washes on the shore, Claire is immediately drawn to him, unaware of his true identity, Captain Jamie Fraser, one of the fiercest pirates on the seas. Claire's life quickly becomes entangle with Jamie's bringing her on an adventure of epic proportions, testing everything that she though she knew about natural world, the supernatural, and love.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mibasiamille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mibasiamille/gifts), [minandmic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minandmic/gifts).



> Hi all! First off I would like to give a huge thank you for giving my story a read! I really hope you enjoy it! If you would like to keep up to date on my writing and see some more of my ramblings, be sure to check out my Tumblr- www.marlosbooknook.tumblr.com
> 
> I would also like to give a monumental shoutout to my editors and best friends @mibasiamille and @minandmic, becuase I couldn't have done any of this without their support and advice!

At a young age, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp had been taught to fear the ocean. Escorted by hand along the rocky English shores, she was advised to stay clear of the powerful, commanding currents--ones that could drag a little girl down to the darkest depths of the sea. She had been regaled with gripping tales of fearsome men who prowled the waters for the treasures of gold and crusaded through the seas in search of bloodshed, gleefully displaying the Jolly Roger upon the masts of their ships. Compared to the placid lakes of Oxfordshire and the gurgling streams of Europe, the mighty sea possessed a titan-like supremacy, power enough to uproot the life of a young girl on three separate occasions.   
The first wave had taken her parents from her, when the merchant ship carrying her father, mother, and worldly possessions was lost to the depths of the Atlantic. It left in its wake the shattered remains of a family. The elder Beauchamps had been sailing towards a new life in the colonies, leaving young Claire in the care of her Uncle Lamb, promising to send for her once they had established some subsistence. Her summons never arrived. 

Claire vividly remembered the moment she was informed that she was an orphan. She was peering out of the second story window, gazing into Brighton Harbor, believing that if she waited long enough, her parents would materialize before her. Solemn footsteps delivered a letter, an impersonal declaration of her loss and pronouncement of her future, the value of her estate, and the bestowal of her person onto her dear Uncle. Claire was unable to look at the sea for years after.  
The second offense came during Claire’s adolescence, when she was shepherded aboard a ship and sent off with her Uncle, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, sent to the West Indies where he was to lead in the inception of a new university. Haunting memories of her last goodbyes, both to those still living and those long forgotten, flitted through her mind, and she wondered whether she should write a note to them, a last will and testament to serve as evidence proving her existence for the sake of history? The thought loomed over her, growing ever darker as she realized her potential fate. Would she share the same destiny as her parents? She bid farewell to the rolling hills and bustling towns of England and boarded the vessel, the shadows of her parents watching her wavering steps as she prepared to face the unknown.   
Before embarking on their voyage, Uncle Lamb had gifted Claire with a book, a massive volume edged with gold leafing and scrolling vines, entitled Flora of the Western Hemisphere, Volume III: The West Indies.

“I figured it would benefit you to have a hobby over there,” He had told her. “You’re far too clever to parade around the beach with a parasol.”

Though initially perceived as a rather bizarre gift, Uncle Lamb proved to be correct in the assessment of his niece. In her weeks spent aboard the HMS Britannia (though Claire preferred her bestowed moniker, The Wooden Hell), Claire confined herself to her cabin, reveling in the wonders of the natural world, and she began to paint a mental picture of the foreign land she would soon call home. From the poisonous seeds of the Crab’s Eye Vine, to the medicinal value of the Sea Grape, Claire began to conjure an image in her mind of a land where she could begin a new life. A place where she could be free from her ghosts and foster a greater and brighter future, where she could rise up from the darkness of her past like a phoenix from the ashes.   
Closing her book and making her way onto the deck, Claire let her skirts whip around her as she drank in the salty air. She gazed over the ship’s rails into the swirling foam below, admiring the inherent beauty of the deep blue, and she came to realize why the Greeks had both feared and loved Poseidon—why God had decided upon a flood to cleanse the world and make it anew. Yes, the ocean was to be feared… but it was also made to be admired. Claire found a kinship with the water: the ever changing tides so closely entwined with her own, tracing her growth and pulling her along on their predetermined path. It was then that Claire abandoned her fear of the ocean, casting it away into the deep, dark depths of the sea, sinking to a mysterious crevice long forgotten.

Years later, sitting in the warm sands of Barbados, her now worn book in hand, Claire Beauchamp basked in the Caribbean sunlight as she listened to the roar of the surf upon the sandy shores. The gulls were squabbling overhead, the market teeming with life, and up upon a sandy hill, Uncle Lamb sat in his office, postponing his work to sift through the intricate notes his niece had taken on the local plant-life, marveling at her intellect and passion.

But the ocean giveth and the ocean taketh away. While the Atlantic had stolen Claire’s parents from her, it had also delivered her to this remarkable paradise. It had allowed her to free herself from the shackles of the past with her formative years spent on the majestic shores of Barbados. The sandy dunes and fragrant waters ignited a vivacious spark in Claire, and as she stood to make her way back home, she felt fully and utterly content. 

Yet despite both the blessings and curses bestowed upon her by the raging torrents of the sea, there was still one final blow to be dealt.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has taken a little while, but I finally am back in a writing groove, and I am really happy to share this with all of you!

“Mary. Go into the garden and bring me the Aloe Vera,” Claire demanded, pressing her gloved hands onto the bloody thigh of a Lieutenant Jeremy Foster, a soldier and university student who had sought out Claire’s medicinal talents for a rather particular affliction.

An hour prior, the young man had arrived at the steps of her home, begging to be treated, but refused to divulge what ailed him.  Herding the debilitated gentleman into the rear of the house,  Claire ushered him into the shed that had served as her makeshift infirmary: a place where she could tend to the patients of Bridgetown confidentially. 

Sending a messenger to fetch her friend and assistant, Mary Hawkins, Claire begin to interrogate the lieutenant, pressing him for details on what brought him to her doorstep. 

“I need to know what has happened to you, Lieutenant Foster.  If you refuse to tell me what ails you, it is untreatable, and you might as well just go into town where Doctor Abernathy can attend to you”

Foster, delicately perched on the side of the “examination table”, sighed and lowered his head, refusing to meet Claire’s eyes. Normally a proud, stoic man, who carried himself about the port with an aloof sense of entitlement; Claire felt mildly pleased to see him reduced to such a state. Still, she had agreed to help him, and knew that the circumstances must be unusual to bring him to seek her rather than the resident doctor.  She began cautiously moving closer to the young man, beginning to take a more passive approach to procuring the required information.

“Lieutenant Foster, Jonathan, I can promise you that nothing you tell me here will ever leave this room. You have my word; I am here to help you.”

Blushing scarlet, Foster began to quietly mumble, and Claire struggled to weave together the pieces of the tale being told to her.

“Well…I was finishing my rounds along the harbor… and I thought it would be far simpler to take a shortcut through the forest so as to not miss the evening roll-call.”

He paused and took a breath, and Claire sensed that he was soon to divulge the truth.

“Go on,” she prodded.

“Ah. Yes. So, um,” he stammered, “As I was making my way back-- along the path mind you-- I happened to encounter a young lady with whom I have had some  _ intimate _ relations in the past, and I appear to have contracted some sort of... _ rash _ ...”

An infamous courter and well-known casanova, it did not surprise Claire that the cause of his ailment stemmed from ungentlemanly conduct. She shuddered as she realized the location of this self-described rash and knew that, unfortunately, she had already agreed to treat it. It was clear why Lieutenant Foster came to Claire instead of the town doctor, Joe Abernathy; a scandal that would erupt in the small community of Bridgetown would ruin the young officer’s reputation.

Claire found herself puzzling over how to proceed. She could treat the most grisly of wounds and infections with so little as the blink of an eye, but this simple quandary posed an incredible, unsolicited challenge. She knew what she must do, and clearing her throat, Claire began in her most civil and professional manner, “May you please show me the location of this…  _ rash _ , Mr. Foster?”

The young man’s eyes widened, as though he suspected that Claire would turn him away due to the delicate circumstances of his condition. Taking a steely breathe, stood up and dropped his trousers, averting Claire’s eyes and making sure that sure that he remained thoroughly unexposed. Claire could clearly see the red welts and patches spotting his skin, dancing up his leg until their disappearance beneath the folds of his shirt. Sorely out of her element, Claire walked over to the desk in the corner of the room, and after sifting through the college of papers, diagrams, and leaf trimmings scattered across its surface, retrieved a pair of white cotton gloves.

Claire slid the thin gloves onto her fingers, the only barrier between her skin and the Lieutenant’s. She glanced at him over her shoulder, quickly swiveling back when he raised his head to meet her eyes. 

_ God I hope I’m not blushing!  _ She thought to herself, but she could feel heat of her skin and the rush of blood traveling up to her face.  _ God damn my glass face!  _  Smoothing her skirt and clearing her head, Claire returned to Doctor Foster’s side. 

“May I see, please?”

With a nod from Lieutenant Foster, Claire gingerly placed her hand against the raw skin of his leg. He let out a hiss of pain.

“Your hands are like ice!”

“I’m sorry.” She said as she quickly lifted her hands

“Wait! Don’t stop; it feels good.” Claire grimaced internally at the Lieutenant's unwanted advances.

Slowly moving upwards on his leg, Claire examined the damage. The skin on his leg was raw, appearing almost burnt like. Even as she gently grazed her fingers over the skin flakes of dead skin peeled forward and stuck to the fabric of her gloves. It was grisly to be sure, but nothing she couldn’t fix.

In the near ten years in Bridgetown, Claire has become particularly acquainted with the various illnesses and maladies that ran rampant through the tropical community. Her book of herbs and plant life, now worn and dusty with age, came in great use, and allowed Claire to become informed not just on what pants to avoid, but what to collect as well. With her Uncle’s support, Claire began to collect and grow her own holistic collection of herbs which could be used to treat a variety of ailments, from a fever to an allergic reaction. People came to Claire as a sort of second doctor, her policy of confidentiality and unwillingness to accept payment setting her apart from Joe Abernathy.

Removing her hand from the soldier’s bare leg, Claire busied herself flipping through the pages of her book, scanning for what plant could have caused the lieutenant’s rash. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jonathan picking at the raw flesh, itching and peeling off the flaking skin. She was quick to scold him.

“If you keep that up, you’re just going to make it worse.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he responded guilty

“Don’t call me that. Or ‘Miss Beauchamp’. Considering I’ve seen you nearly naked, I think it is only fair that we call each other by our first names. Wouldn’t you agree, Jonathan?”

Hiding the rising pink in his cheeks, the lieutenant turned his head, “Thank you, ma’am… I mean, Claire!”

Shaking her head Claire returned to her book, leafing through the pages before letting out a quick cry of triumph as her finger landed on the culprit. 

“The Manchineel tree, or  _ Hippomane mancinella _ ,” she read allowed, “All parts of this tree contain strong toxins, producing strong allergic dermatitis and blister like symptoms.” 

But her triumph was quickly interrupted as Lieutenant Foster let out a cry of pain. Whirling around, Claire gasped at the sight that lay before her. The skin on the lieutenant's leg was nearly peeled off completely, and rivulets of ruby colored blood ran in rivulets down his leg, absorbing into the wood of the floor and table. 

“What the bloody hell did you do?!” Claire exclaimed, running to the cabinet where she kept the gauze

“It was just so  _ itchy… _ ” The Captain couldn’t finish his sentence as he let out another bark of pain, pressing his hands on the inflamed flesh.

“Move your hand,” Claire commanded, pressing the padded gauze on the blood until it was stained red.

Claire, so concentrated in her task, didn’t hear the door fly open and the small form of Mary Hawkins rush in, her race flushed from exertion.

“I’m so sorry Claire, I got here as soon as I could. Goodness!” she exclaimed as she saw the hectic scene before her “What happened?”

“Mary, go into the garden and bring me the Aloe Vera.” Claire ordered like a first rate general. Mary hesitated, looking at the the ragged form of Lieutenant Foster’s leg.

“Go, now. I’ll explain later.”

With a quick nod, Mary rushed back outside, and returned momentarily with a bundle of large green leaves. Moving to Claire’s side, she began peeling back the green leaf, revealing the spongy interior of the plant. Claire removed the gauze from the Lieutenant's thigh, and, after ensuring that the bleeding had ceased, began to gently rub the aloe onto the raw skin. Lieutenant Foster let out a hiss at the shocking coolness, but soon slipped into a state of peaceful relaxation as the Aloe began to ease his discomfort. At long last, the deed was done.  When she was sure that his leg was sufficiently slathered, she began to carefully wind a strip of cotton fabric around the exposed tissue, making sure it was secure, but not too tight as to cause further irritation. At long last, the deed was done. 

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Claire took a moment to inhale and collect her thoughts.

“Mary, may you please escort Lieutenant Foster to the main road, so he might be able to travel back to his barracks?”

Mary was quick to oblige, though her small frame nearly buckled under the weight of the incapacitated officer. Stopping at the door, Lieutenant Foster turned around.

“Thank you again, Miss Beauchamp. My sincerest gratitude for both your kindness and your discretion.”

Claire stifled a giggle as he made a feeble attempt to tip his hat before limping out the door with Mary’s aid. Once she was sure they had safely departed, she turned around to deal with the battle scene before her. Papers and bloodied pieces of cloth were strewn about, and the wooden surfaces of the table and floor were stained crimson.  Fetching a clean rag and some lye soap from a shelf, she went to work sanitising and cleaning the room. Claire hiked up her skirts to begin scrubbing at the floor, vigorously rubbing against the floorboards until the rag, and her hands, had adopted a red hue.

Humming as she worked, Claire’s thoughts began to drift, wondering about the next days and what medicinal puzzle awaited her. Although she found solace in the simple continuity of her life in Bridgetown, there was a part of her that desperately longed for something greater. 

In her childhood, Claire drank in the tales of powerful women, from Cleopatra to Joan of Arc, and some deep rooted seed of fantasy pictured a future filled of adventure and mystique. Though her life was far from mundane, Claire felt trapped. The Earth seemed to have put weights on her feet, slowly dragging her downwards, when all she wanted to do was fly… or sail. 

She recalled the moment when she saw the beauty in the ocean, saw the freedom it could give her and its remarkable ability to wash away the pain of the past. Even though it had taken her parents away from her all those years ago, it had also delivered her to this magical place, and allowed her to discover her passion for healing. From the moment she stared at the vivid blue surf and white surf of the Caribbean shores, she knew that she has found her home. It was a place for her to begin again, and live a life apart from the English pomp and circumstance. The ocean delivered her to paradise, an nurtured as if she was her own. Claire Beauchamp was truly a daughter of the ocean.

Claire was so engrossed in her thoughts and cleaning that she did not hear the wooden door creak on its rusty hinges. It wasn’t until she felt a weathered hand on her shoulder that she was startled back into reality, as she swiveled around to face her Uncle Lambert, curls flying in front of her face as she whirled forward.

“Jesus Christ! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Uncle Lamb chuckled as he helped his niece of the floor. “Looks like quite the battle took place in here. Who was the unfortunate victim?”

“Lieutenant Foster,” Claire replied as she smoothed her skirt and tied her hair into a bun. “He had a rather  _ unfortunate _ rash.”

“Well, I’m glad you were able to help him, but I’m afraid I must cut your cleaning short. We have a guest who is  _ very _ anxious to speak to you. Go make yourself presentable and meet us in the drawing room.”

Claire was perplexed by her Uncle’s abrupt command, and the circumstances of it. Very rarely did people come to the main house to see  _ her _ . She participated little in the local social scene, puzzling the community with her preference for books over ballrooms.

“Might I inquire as to  _ who _ this visitor is and what, exactly, they want with me?” she inquired, beginning to grow frustrated at her Uncle’s lack of explanation.

After a moment of contemplation, he responded, “You would much rather hear it from them. It really isn’t my place-”

“I will not leave this room until you tell me the purpose of this meeting and who I am to expect. I am hardly a child anymore, Uncle Lamb, and I refuse to be kept in the dark. I don’t want to go in and make a fool of myself for being unaware of our visitor’s motivations!”

Lambert was taken aback by Claire’s outburst. It was very rare that they disagreed, and even rarer when she refused to abide by his instructions. Still, he knew that she was as stubborn as a bull, and that she meant it when she said she would not leave the shed until he told her the truth. So, sighing and running a hand through his graying hair, he met Claire’s blazing amber eyes and mentally prepared himself for the inevitable maelstrom of his confession.

“It is Professor Randall, my colleague from the university. He came to ask my permission for your hand in marriage.”

Claire felt her stomach plummet. In her wildest dreams, she had not imagined herself being married, let alone to a distant figure she had only spoken to a handful of times! 

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, assuring herself that it was  _ impossible _ that her Uncle had agreed for her to marry without speaking with her first. They held each other in complete and utter confidence.

“And?” Claire questioned, the distress becoming increasingly clear in her voice. “What did you say to his request?”

“I granted him my permission. You are to be married to Frank Randall.”


	3. Ch.2

Claire’s heart dropped like a rock. For perhaps the first time in her life, she was completely and utterly speechless. She was not sure whether she wanted to laugh, cry, scream, or pummel her Uncle to the brink of death. Never, in all of the years she had been in Lamb’s care, could she have expected him to proceed so thoughtlessly. She felt betrayed, orphaned all over again, as the one person she thought that she could always count on gave her away like a piece of property. 

_ I thought Uncle Lamb was better than this,  _ she thought to herself. _ I cannot- I  _ will _ not marry Frank Randall, and there is no way he can make me. _

“I know this isn’t what you wanted-”

“You know  _ bloody  _ well that this isn’t what I wanted!” Claire spat, the anger seeping into her voice.

“If you would give me the opportunity to explain myself, Claire-” He attempted to pacify her. With spiraling curls spilling out wildly around her face and her amber eyes blazing with rage, she looked like a lioness, and Lamb found himself in the unfortunate position of the gazelle.

“Save your explanation,” Claire retorted sharply. “There is nothing that you can say or do that will make me marry Frank Randall. I barely  _ know _ the man!”

“It will be a good match. You’re both extremely bright, and Professor Randall has taken an interest in you after speaking to you at the University Ball last month.”

Claire could only remember the aforementioned ball in bits and pieces. She had needed to consume a copious amount of champagne in order to survive the stuffy, academic evening. She had been standing alone in the corner of the room, nursing her glass, when Professor Randall had taken the opportunity to stroll to her side. The pair stood in silence for a moment and Claire prayed to every deity she could think of that the lack of conversation would be enough to persuade Randall to leave her to her own devices. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

Clearing his throat, Professor Randall shattered the wall. “Miss Beauchamp,” he began, nodding his head as though he just noticed her standing beside him.

_ Jesus H. Christ this man has no social grace!  _ Claire thought to herself.

_ “ _ Professor Randall,” she replied, repressing a wine derived hiccup as she bobbed in a quick curtsey.

_ Should I say something?  _ Claire pondered as she struggled to ease the awkward tension of the situation. Perhaps she should just excuse herself, and put them both out of their misery. Just as she was preparing to make her escape, Randall opened his mouth once more

“You know, I just returned from London. I was assisting in the curation of an exhibition for the King himself. It was a collection of South American antiquities we acquired from Spain in their hoard of conquistadorian artifacts…”

The rest of the conversation was a blank spot in Claire’s memory. But what she could recall soured her perception of Professor Randall. _Aloof, conceited,_ and an _altogether bore_ were the terms Claire thought best to describe him. He was so centered in his own exploits, he never once paused to allow Claire a word of reply. It only lent further credence in her refusal to marry the man.

Uncle Lamb was still trying to speak, the sweat beading on his brow, from a mixture of the Caribbean summer heat and nerves, as he attempted to talk to his niece. He knew that this wasn't going to go over smoothly, but the unadulterated rage that lay before him was beyond even his most extreme expectations. He could understand Claire’s anger. After all, she had spent the majority of her childhood traveling the world, engaging in activities almost the entirety of polished society would deem unsuitable for a girl of noble birth. But Lambert let her. His leash was loose, and he allowed Claire to do as she pleased. Seeing her happy brought him joy; she was the closest thing he had ever had to a daughter. 

Yet, in this moment, he couldn’t breathe a word of this to Claire. 

His thoughts were broken by the punctuated statement from Claire, whose words were so sharp they pierced his heart like a dagger.

“If you loved me, you would not make me do this. I will not marry Frank Randall.”

Though her statement was simple, a million thoughts were coursing through Claire’s mind.  _ What have I done to deserve this? _ Her composure slipped, and she fractured into a thousand shards as she watched her uncle's face change from one of moderated sympathy to one of pure stone. Her pointed jab had crossed a line, and as he hardened, she saw a coldness in him that she never could have imagined. 

“This is not a matter you have a choice in, Claire. You are marrying Professor Randall because I am ordering you to, and that is  _ final _ !” His voice grew to a mighty roar. Lamb had never yelled before, and hearing the pure unfettered anger in his voice left Claire at a loss for words.

The silence in the air was suffocating. Tears were flowing openly down Claire’s face, leaving luminescent, sparkling tracks on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but found that only the barest hint of a sound could escape her lips. She tried to look up, to meet her uncle’s eye, but he had already turned and walked out of the shed, slamming the flimsy wooden door behind him.

Claire raced after him, her nails digging into the soft skin of her hands until they began to draw blood. Blinded by anger and betrayal, she pushed her way into the outside, the bright Barbados sun blinding her as she fell to the ground and shrieked, “Do  _ not _ walk away from me! I will not go through with this!”

So she lay in the grass spotted sand, her only comfort the distant sound of the surf crashing on the shore and the gulls overhead. She could have spent hours like that, in her own little bubble to process the events that had just occurred. But, a hand on her shoulder caused an abrupt end to her idealistic contemplation. 

“Claire? Are you alright?”

_ Dear God, not now _ \- It was the last voice she wanted to hear, the last person she wanted to see after all of this. She forced herself to raise her head.

“Professor Randall,” she said, she tried to say it as stoically as possible, but she found her voice quivering.

“Please, call me Frank.” He attempted to help Claire onto her feet, but she shrugged him off, and turned away. She felt silly; she prided herself on being mature, keeping her emotions hidden. The Bridgetown locals whispered about her being made of ice. It was what made her so good at her job. She harbored no resentments, and presented as a granite statue to the world, unable to be shaken. Until now…

“I heard a commotion from the patio, and, well, I just wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Claire responded, pushing past Frank as she made her way back to the main house. “I just feel unwell.”

Frank grabbed her wrist as she began to walk.

“Wait.” He said, “Walk with me. I would like to talk to you.”

Every fiber of Claire’s being wanted to refuse, but she found herself nodding her head as she and Frank began to make their way down the winding path towards the shore. 

_ Goddamit Beauchamp! _ She thought as her body mechanically moved against her will. 

They were seated silently on a rocky outcropping looking over the surf. Claire’s head flew in front of her face. They had passed the past hour in silence. Frank had tried to make conversation, talking about some new discovery, how they may have uncovered the body of Richard III back in England,  but he gave up as Claire just stared ahead, her eyes glazed over as she washed the waves crash on the shore. There was a storm coming in, and it was as though Claire’s inner turmoil seeped its way out to the sea, where it manifested in the malevolent clouds.

“You like the ocean?” Frank attempted to inquire. He found mild satisfaction in the slight nod he received from Claire as response. “I never much liked the sea myself. It’s far too aggressive; it can’t decide what it wants to be. There’s just too much disorder. I prefer the solid Earth.”

That single statement only further validated Claire’s feelings. Her and Frank Randall were two complete opposites, and differed in ways too monumental to result in happiness. Her chaos, her spontaneity, would be smothered in his closeted library. It was time to put him out of his misery.

“Profess- Frank,” she began, “I know that you were hoping-”

Frank interrupted her. “If I may, Claire. I would like an opportunity to plead my case.” Claire found herself resolved to passive silence as he continued. “I have known your Uncle for many years, and in the years since I’ve been on this island, I have watched you mature into a, well, into a simply ravishing woman, and I am hoping that you will accept my proposal personally. Then we can leave this dreadful place and go back to civilized society.”

“Professor Randall, I do not  _ want  _ to go back to England. My life is here, my friends, and my purpose are  _ here _ . And if you are unwilling to accept that, then I sincerely doubt that I can make you happy as a wife, and to be completely honest, I remain fairly certain that you will disappoint me equally as a husband.”

Frank was left speechless. Claire’s words were laced with an utter ambivalence that he could never have. Claire, on the other hand, felt a swell of confidence. She was taking her life into her own hands, and her plans did not include Frank Randall.

“Claire. If I’ve offended you in some way, I sincerely apologize, but I do not believe I have done nothing to deserve such hostility from you.”

“You have done nothing, and that is exactly why I will not marry you. We are thoroughly incompatible. This entire conversation, you haven’t let me get in a single _ bloody _ word, and now you make yourself the victim.”

Claire was on a natural high, speaking her mind. She was not going to let Frank Randall bully her into being his wife. She stood up to walk away, but Frank rose up to stop her.

“Wait!” he pleaded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped parcel. “This is for you. I didn’t have time to get an engagement ring, and this matches your eyes perfectly. Keep it, and think about my offer.”

Claire unwrapped the package to discover a smooth amber pendant, with a dragonfly trapped with wings spread in the middle. As much as Claire hated to admit it, it was extremely beautiful.

“Thank you,” Claire responded, rubbing her thumb over the glistening surface.

“It was much bigger originally.” Frank made a palm sized shape. “But I had it slimmed and buffed for you. I hope you will wear it and consider my proposal.”

Claire wrapped the amber pack in its cloth covering, and slipped it into her pocket.

“Goodbye, Professor Randall.” 

“Wait- are you sure you don’t want me to walk you back-”

But Claire was already gone, off the rocks, and walking barefoot along the shore.

Claire walked until the sun began to set in the horizon, lost in her own thoughts. She didn’t want to go back home, to face the wrath of her uncle. She felt a pang of remorse. 

_ The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt him, or disappoint him…  _ she thought. But it was short lived, as the sight of her uncle’s enraged face flashed into her memory, the thought of his unabashed fury bringing tears to her eyes.  _ I am Claire Beauchamp and I will  _ not _ marry Frank Randall.  _ She repeated that mantra over and over again, the force of the words propelling her further and further away from her home and the main hub of Bridgetown.  _ I am Claire Beauchamp and I will not marry Frank Randall.  _

The storm clouds continued to close in above Claire’s head, and the surf began to grow, lukewarm tendrils of water lapping at Claire’s stockinged toes before quickly receding back to the sea. The wind whipped the ribbon out of Claire’s hair and blew it out of view, sending her curls flying in front of her face. Claire knew that she ought to turn back, but an unknown force kept pushing her forward. She pushed on, unwilling to even turn to see how far she had walked along the coast. 

In the distance, she saw a dark mass on the shore. A piece of driftwood was not unusual on the tropical coast, but something deep in the pit of her stomach told Claire that there was something more. The invisible tether continued to pull her forward, and she didn't feel herself break into a run, hiking up her skirts as her feet pounded into the damp sand. 

Claire stopped in her tracks and stared at the sight before her.

A flash of fiery red.

A subtle movement.

A limp hand.

 

_ Jesus H. Christ....  _ Claire thought as she stared helplessly at the man lying motionless in the surf.


	4. In the Depths of the Sea- Ch.3

Claire rushed forward, stumbling over the shifting sand before falling to her knees in front of the mysterious figure. He was laying on his back, a thick coating of sand masking his features, save for his russet curls.

 _That bloody hair may very well have saved his life!_ Claire thought. Had the crimson spot on the shore not caught her attention, she would never had been able to distinguish the figure in the distance, and identify it as a person. She brushed the damp curls out of his face, but it was nearly impossible to discern any obvious injuries with the mask of sand blanketing his face and exposed skin. 

He was breathing, that much Claire was sure of. She could see the rise and fall of his chest through the soaked layers of clothing clinging to his muscular frame. There was no way she could lift him, and she couldn’t send back for help without leaving him to the wrath of the ocean. It was impossible to tell whether he was going to wake up or not, no way of knowing what trauma he had faced at sea before arriving on the Barbados shore. Her repeated attempts at rousing him failed- her shaking, pinching and gentle murmurs of encouragement eliciting no response. With no signs of active life, Claire’s hope was beginning to falter, as the mental images of disastrous accidents danced across her thoughts _Was he a sailor? Had he slipped from the riggings and been swept away under the masses of foam, assumed to be dead by his friends and crew? Did he have a family, a wife, children, someone wondering where he was or if he was alive?_

“Oh, _bloody hell_!”

 So caught up was she in her examination of the mysterious castaway that she failed to to notice the arrival of the storm, which had been ominously looming in the distance. Only the sharp darts of rain against her skin and the vibrations of the clapping thunder alerted her of its presence. It only hastened the importance of getting her unconscious companion to safety.

 “Come on you bastard, why can’t you just _wake up_?!” Her attempts at restoring consciousness became increasingly more desperate. Urgently she shook him, praying internally that the  jarring motion would restore some semblance of activity to the man’s limp form. His face in between her hands, Claire let out a tirade of every curse she knew, in English and French, any and all expletives she picked up from Uncle Lamb and his consortium of world travelers she knew. Fear made its home in the pit of her stomach as he remained unresponsive.

 She stood up, grains of sand cascading off her skirts onto the unconscious man in front of her. Exasperated by her failure and the increasingly antagonistic circumstances, Claire ran a hand through her salt- licked curls as the cool sea breeze caused her to shiver. Below her, her unexpected companion shuddered, and Claire noticed his face pale beneath his sandy armour as a concerning blue tinge seeped into his lips.

 A sigh of relief. He was moving, breathing, and it appeared to Claire that he was slowly inching towards life. But the initial joy at his movement was quickly replaced by dread as the reason for his sudden stirring became clear in Claire’s mind.

  _Jesus, he’ll freeze to death if I don’t do something!_ Claire realized with a shock. How could she have been so careless? So concerned had she been in her search for superficial, visible ailments, that Claire failed to realize the more pressing and life-threatening chill that was seeping into her patient’s bones. He was soaking wet, and the icy rain and sea breeze were sapping away any of the heat that remained in his body. For the first time since arriving in Bridgetown, Claire was unsure of what to do. Never in her years in Barbados had she dealt with someone suffering from the cold. She knew of no medicinal herbs and no immediate cure for heat deprivation, other than to get this man to safety and warmth as quickly as she could. In her heart, Claire felt like she had failed in her sole mission. In an existence devoted aiding those in need who had nowhere else to turn, she had never held a life in her hands: a fragile, temporary, fleeting, human life.

 She spared a panicked glance in the direction from which she had come in the unlikely hope that Frank had followed her, yet he was nowhere to be seen. _The_ one _time the man chooses to mind his own_ bloody _business!_ She was utterly alone, save for the man clinging to life before her.

 She felt something wet lapping at her toes through her stockings, looking down to realize the tide was quickly coming in. A flash of lightning illuminated the roiling sea in the distance. Looming waves towered into the air, creeping steadily closer to the shore. The fear of drowning gripped Claire and rattled her to the core. She had to get out- quickly. But she couldn’t just leave this man to his death; she had to act.

 Soaked to the skin from ocean water and rain, Claire secured the arms of the red-haired giant; noticing quickly as she secured hold that his shoulder was dislocated, Claire weighed her options. There was no other way of getting them both to safety. So,  gritting her teeth and sending a mental apology to her companion, she began the arduous process of dragging him back from the surf.

 The castaway’s face contorted in pain.

 “I’m sorry-- _really_ , I am, but I’ll have you know that this isn’t a picnic for me, either…” Claire responded pointedly, as pins and needles sent a painful reminder of the strenuous task before her.

 It would be impossible for her to transport him all the way back to her makeshift clinic, but she spied a lone palm tree back against the rocky cliff face. There, they could wait until the storm passed. She tugged, and the man gave a pitiful groan of discomfort, the only sound he had made since his discovery.

“What else would you like me to do?” Claire muttered, heaving with exertion. “It’s not like you can walk your damn self to the doctor. _I_ am the only one here to help you. So you’re just going to have to _bloody_ cooperate!” With each word she tugged, and Claire could see the heavy track of the man’s weight tracing their path. They had made progress, but it wasn’t enough.

 Claire’s stomach turned as she remembered the people she had been unable to save, her parents, who vanished into the mist and never came back. The ocean had taken them from her, deprived her of a life with them. But perhaps she was being given another chance with this stranger. And she would not, _could_ not, let him down.

  _Pull yourself together, Beauchamp. Do it for him._

 So she pulled. Her back ached from the strain, and sweat dripped from her brow, mixing with the rain and clouding her vision.

 “Come on, you brute. Just a little bit farther.”

 By the time they reached the palm, Claire’s arms were numb and her back was screaming in pain. But they had made it. Safely sheltered from the rain under the green fronds, Claire pulled the thin kerchief from around her neck and gently dusted the wet sand off of his face, slowly revealing a sculpted jaw, coated with a layer of soft orange stubble. A strong nose and gently bowed lips followed.

  _I’ve found myself a bloody Adonis_...

 It was impossible not to admire the beauty of the man before her. His whole person was sculpted and angular, and Claire could see the taught muscles underneath his damp clothing.  She felt a slight twinge in the pit of her stomach, but it vanished as quickly as it came. An unsure pause followed as Claire gathered herself. She needed to focus on the task at hand. Her own feelings, whatever they were, could not interfere. This man’s life depended on it.

 His face clean, Claire assessed his form for any other injury. The dislocated shoulder was a concern, but it wasn’t life-threatening. The onset of hypothermia proved to be her chief concern. She realized that his clothing, saturated with seawater, was keeping the chill to his skin. It was risky, and improper to be sure, but Claire knew that body heat was the surest way to restore warmth into his body.

  _Propriety be damned_!

 His shirt was already tattered, she observed as she carefully tried removing it, no doubt torn up from his time in the water. Her fingers fumbled and stumbled on the laces, a mixture of cold and nerves. After a brief struggle, she decided at last to just rip the thin fabric, exposing the toned torso beneath. A thin layer of soft red curls danced across his chest, sneaking downwards over his stomach before vanishing beneath the black waistband of his breeks. Claire could feel a flush creep up the back of her neck at the sight.

  _I’m a bloody fool…_ She mentally admonished herself.

 She had seen men shirtless before, it was a common sight along the harbor, as sailors went about their business in the tropical heat. But again, she felt herself stir at the sight. Yet despite his outward appearance, and the powerful effect felt by Claire as she gazed upon his half dressed form, something about him radiated youthful innocence. Claire felt a sudden urge to protect him, despite never having spoken a word to him. She couldn’t discern what it was about his man that created such a stark duality within her, but the hard angles of him masked a vulnerability that instinctively made Claire reach out to stroke his cheek.

 As she lay her palm upon his face, the faintest hint of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, and Claire couldn't help but grin in turn. The world seemed to freeze. The rain stopped beating above their head and the waves ceased their endless attack against the shore. For one, utterly perfect moment, Claire felt at peace, alone with the man she pulled from the sea.

 The moment shattered as the stranger’s eyes shot open.

 


End file.
